


Coincidental Arrangements

by pinkywinkystars



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Bernie must be protected, Caspar is an idiot, Felix is a grumpy old man, Fluff and Humor, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Multi, Past Abuse, Sylvain being Sylvain, but he's doing his best, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-02-22 23:35:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23102176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkywinkystars/pseuds/pinkywinkystars
Summary: “Bernie doesn’t need friends,” she mutters to herself, “because Bernie has plants, paintings, novels and needlework to keep her company!”“Nonsense, sweetheart. You’re far too young and dare I say, adorable, to be hiding in this little castle of yours,” a familiar voice replied.~*~*~*~*~*~*~A modern monster AU featuring our favourite recluse vampire, Bernie.Will update relationships and tags as we go.
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez/Bernadetta von Varley, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Sylvain Jose Gautier & Bernadetta von Varley
Comments: 26
Kudos: 61





	1. Neighbours

**Author's Note:**

> This is completely self-indulgent. I love Caspar/Bernie to bits and it pains me that they're a bit of a rarepair in the FE3H fandom. Welp, if IS and the fandom won't give me any food, then I guess I'll just make my own :^)  
>   
> And for those who haven't already, please go read "Futile Tactics" by ShiningFrost. Their work is phenomenal and is what inspired me to go forward with writing a Caspar/Bernadetta fic of my own. Show them your love and support <3

Bernadetta doesn’t like going outside.

Correction, she loathes it; the garden across the road reeks of garlic all year round, she has to scurry past a church during her commute and her neighbours have an unhealthy preference for spicy vegetable casserole.

She doesn’t quite understand why they still insist on giving her leftovers. As if opening her front door a mere five centimetres isn’t a loud enough message of her desire to be left alone, she has rejected every attempt with squeeks of “no, thank you, Bernie is an obligate carnivore!”

At this point, Bernadetta is half-convinced the elderly couple knows exactly what she was (why else would they torture her with their awful vegetarian dish? It’s a conspiracy!) or, they don’t know what she was and are just being friendly.

As nice as that sounds, she prefers the former. Humans don’t live long. Befriending them would just make her lonelier when they inevitably pass on.

“Bernie doesn’t need friends,” she mutters to herself, “because Bernie has plants, paintings, novels and needlework to keep her company!”

“Nonsense, sweetheart. You’re far too young and dare I say, adorable, to be hiding in this little castle of yours,” a familiar voice replied. “Come now, I’ve even added beef for you. Granted, it’s not healthy to eat meat all the time, Goddess knows my other half is probably worse than you. So,” Sylvain says with a playful wink, “this will have to be our own little secret.” He then flourishes a porcelain dish, the now not vegetarian casserole’s savoury aroma wafting through the plain tea towel covering the top. The perfect size for one.

Dumbstruck and mouth agape, Bernadetta just stares. The hands of her grandfather clock ticks once, twice...

“Eek! W-what are you doing here? Have you finally come to slay me? No, you wouldn’t bring such a nice smelling meal for that - you’re here to drug, kidnap and then sell me to the highest bidder! Please have mercy, good sir, Bernie is not-”

“Calm down, little lady. No one’s here to hurt or drag you away. You just didn’t shut the door on me in five seconds this time, so I thought this would be my best chance to win you over with my roguish charms.” The greying redhead bows, the motion looking practised and suave. Rising up, he accompanies his second wink with a cheeky grin, “how am I doing?”

“I… I-I don’t…” she stutters, apprehensive and quivering, her feet fidget restlessly.

“Nevermind, sweetheart. We’ll go at your pace.” His earlier teasing melts into dimples and deepset crows feet. The reassurement eases Bernadetta like her quilted blankets on rainy days. She offers a small smile back to him.

“Anyway, here you go.” Sylvain nudges the dish towards her fingers, still hot but not burning. She slowly accepts with shaky hands and he rewards her with beaming white once it is clutched tightly in front of her. Up close, it really does smell delicious; hints of hearty beef and aged red wine mixing with a medley of melt-in-your-mouth vegetables. She silently curses Sylvain for not adding beef into his previous casseroles sooner.

Oh well. As they say, better late than never!

Bernadetta readies herself to say good night, drawing a steadying breath and squaring her shoulders to directly face her guest, but then disaster hits.

“So, Bernie, you mentioned novels? What sort of books do you read?”

The breath she took moments before instantly leaves her. There it is, the dreaded question she hasn’t prepared for! She scrounges for any leftover courage that she might have stored in the past month, but comes up empty with wide eyes and an “eep!”

“Oh dear. I guess I jumped ahead of myself there.” The man carefully backs a couple of steps, right hand coming up to his neck in an apologetic gesture. “Like I said, we’ll go at your pace. No need to tell me now if you don’t want to, sweetheart.” He begins to descend down the front porch. “Enjoy the casserole! Just leave the bowl and tea towel in front of our door when you’re done.”

Just as he reaches her walkway, he half-turns with an index finger lightly pressed against his lips, “and remember, keep the beef hush-hush from grumpy ol’ Felix, alright?” The mischievous glint in his third wink blinks away her earlier panic, leaving her lukewarm with shyness. She watches Sylvain take a left, finally closing her door when she hears him chime, “Felix, honey, you won’t believe what just happened!”

Hearing that, she would have blushed if she could (she hasn’t fed yet), but the sentiment is still there. Bernadetta quickly shuffles to her dining room, eager to try the tantalising beef and vegetable casserole.

Setting herself down with a pack of O-, she digs in. The explosion of flavours from the first bite has her squealing with delight; bold umami accentuated by the delicate sweetness of carrots and tang of vintage. She couldn’t before, but she’s muttering insults at Sylvain for his lack of initiative. Honestly, if he could cook a beef dish this well, he should’ve offered that from the start!

Halfway through, her neck starts to itch, probably from the sprigs of rosemary and cloves of garlic, but it has been a lifetime since someone has given her a proper home-cooked meal. Not since Ferdinand, and Dorothea.

She briefly pauses her chewing at the thought, her mind going back to another place and another time; dredging up ancient memories of heart wrenching arias, late night poetry and frivolous tea parties. Vivid and raw. She remembers them, remembers their unapologetic boldness and relentless patience, as if it were yesterday.

The rest of her breakfast passes on with the clink of her fork and the occasional sniffle. She misses them dearly.

Bernadetta doesn’t like going outside.

But she thinks she has nice neighbours.

* * *

At sunrise, Felix prepares to start the day with a morning jog. Patting down to double-check he had his keys (he doesn’t need to give Sylvain more ammunition to call him old and senile again), he pulls open the door and takes a step forward. His foot knocks something hard.

There, sitting inconspicuously on top of their doormat, is the small casserole dish his lazy husband had somehow managed to get the young shut-in to accept last night. Sighing, because he’s going to have to come home to an overly excited Sylvain, Felix picks up the clean dish and catches blots of purple on the neatly folded tea towel.

Curious, he unfolds it, then groans tiredly. Sylvain is going to have a field day.

Their neighbour is quite the talented person; she has embellished their blank canvas of a tea towel with intricate lavender flowers, delicately decorating the short edges with their signature violet. It’s a sweet gesture, the kind that will get Sylvain to re-double his efforts to coddle her.

Felix hangs the decorated cloth on the oven rail before noticing a post-it note inside the bowl. A quick skim and he’s out of the house in record time, opting to run himself ragged so he doesn’t have to deal with the inevitable hellstorm of a giddy Sylvain drunk on wholesome sweetness from an almost-stranger.

He returns nearly two hours later, panting, sweating and utterly famished. He comes home to his favourite breakfast of andouille, tomatoes and eggs. Sylvain, still dressed in his bathrobes, is leaning against the counter, nursing a cup of black tea and munching on strawberry jam toast.

He’s reading the note.

And crying.

Brushing back the loose navy strands on his forehead with a sigh, Felix gives Sylvian a brief consoling pat on the back and passes him the closest thing he could find for his silly partner to wipe his tears with.

It takes him a millisecond too late to realise he gave him the embroidered tea towel and it’s not long before the occasional sniffling escalates into full-blown sobbing.

“She did this for us? Overnight? I don’t think my heart can take anymore of such lovely surprises.”

“You’re being overly dramatic.”

“You’re not being dramatic enough! She says her favourite genres are fantasy and adventure.” Sylvian excitedly grabs Felix’s hands and brings his face close, more tears pooling in his eyes and the beginnings of a runny nose. “We’re currently reading the same book!”

“Again, you’re being overly dramatic.” The shorter man gently tugs his right hand from Sylvain’s grip and wipes away the wet streaks on his cheeks. “Now, if you want to keep being an idiot, you can do it at the table. I’m hungry.”

“Forcing me to move at this state? My beloved is unforgivingly cruel!”

“Hmph.” The gruff man pays him no mind, long since used to the redhead’s bullshit. He’s already slicing into the spicy sausages by the time Sylvain sits across from him, a pot of specialty Almyran chai placed between them.

Felix lightly taps his foot on top of Sylvain’s, hands too busy piling food into his mouth for a more conventional “thank you.”

They enjoy a few minutes of companionable quiet, before Sylvain starts to babble on about plans to have Bernie over. Felix highly doubts they’ll be able to get her to leave the house on their request, but apparently miracles do happen if last night is any indication. He nods and hums in agreement, sipping his tea as he listens. He will interject, of course, when a particularly stupid idea flies past Sylvian’s lips. When it happens (because it definitely will), they’d bicker back and forth, ultimately choosing to settle things with a game of chess.

It’s just another typical day at the Gautier and Fraldarius household.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't decide which last name to go with for our favourite married gay couple, so uhh... have both? :"D  
> Caspar will show up next chapter, I promise. 
> 
> Kudos or comments (concrits included!) appreciated. Otherwise, thanks for stopping by :")


	2. Acquaintances and Strangers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay in getting this chapter out. I have been wrestling the latter half of it for days as I couldn't get it to read how I wanted it to. I'm still not too happy with it so will eventually change / add more in the future. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read, kudos'ed and/or commented - I am humbled that people are reading this. 
> 
> CW: Although brief, there is mention of abuse in this chapter. Reader discretion is advised.

Hubert von Vestra is a terrifying individual.

Standing over six feet tall in dark attire and a penchant for even darker humour, his presence isn’t exactly calming for the skittish Bernadetta whenever she comes to the Bureau of Adrestian Affairs. He is stern and only mildly tolerant of her shyness, eventually giving her a light sigh when he starts to grow tired of her stuttering. 

It leaves her ashamed; a remnant stain from a previous life with a sterner father and not-so-tolerant whip. She is ashamed that her inadequacies are a regular inconvenience for the busy man, ashamed that he always gives her double appointment blocks, without prompting, because Bernie is still a mess of undead nerves centuries after the end of her nightmare. 

"Bernadetta," Hubert begins, "I must insist that we make our meetings less sporadic. We have recently received an influx of Turned in the region and it would make our routine operations more efficient if we schedule them regularly from now on." He looks at her expectantly. 

For the eight months and a bit, since their first meeting, she has yet to make eye contact with tall, scary Hubert. 

Today doesn’t seem to be that day. 

"B-Bernie understands a-and apologises for the trouble," she scrunches and unscrunches her skirt, both hands restless under his gaze. Why is it so hard to look at him? 

There is a long pause as she struggles to move her lips and suggest the last Monday of every month (she’s busy every other week night, Friday and Saturday are best avoided due to the partygoers still wandering about in the city, and Sunday is just bad news). She opens and closes her mouth, feebly rasping out a "la-last," before going tight-lipped. It’s impossible. Her encounter with Sylvain only three days prior has completely drained her social battery. Not to mention coming to the Bureau had been a colossal ordeal in itself, how could Hubert expect her to have the courage to face him, the final boss in this sham of a Saturday?

Bernadetta angles her head lower and tightly shuts her eyes; the familiar feeling of dread building up in the pit of her belly and at the back of her throat. She anticipates Hubert’s weary sigh, the one that reaffirms her as a disappointment. A burden to everyone. 

It doesn't come. 

"How about the last Monday of every month, at midnight? The number of humans you would encounter at that time should be minimal." His recommendation is calculated and confident, the response coming almost immediately after her failed one. It leaves her with little to no room to complain. 

She is thankful.

“Y-yes. Bernie humbly accepts y-your generous offer, S-Sir Hubert!”

“Just Hubert would be sufficient, Bernadetta. We’ve been acquaintances for almost a year now and Miss Edelgard would be most… displeased if she catches wind of an esteemed member throwing unnecessary honourifics at me.” He finally sighs then, airy and casual. It is distinctly unlike the ones she’s heard from her father, but very much like the huffs she used to get from Ferdie. It’s nostalgic; it’s half-full teajars of her old friend’s Aegir special blend and modest slices of decadent raspberry gateau. 

It’s the sort of familiarity Bernie wants, _needs_ , in this world of rapid changes and fleeting memories.

“Now, it seems we have concluded our meeting earlier than expected,” Hubert says as he takes a cursory glance at his watch. He walks over to the corner table on his left and opens the ebony cupboard above it, revealing a treasury of scarlet cups, mugs, pots and canisters. Hubert’s proud smirk is almost predatorial, “tea or coffee, Bernadetta?”

She can’t help but think he’s testing her, in some convoluted sort of way. 

“Bernie will have whatever Hubert is having,” she quickly mutters back, her skirt is wrinkled and she still can’t muster the courage to look him in the eye. 

“Very well,” he smoothly replies, hands moving precisely as he prepares the brew. In the spacious office, the quiet crunch of coffee beans being grounded is accompanied by the rumble of water boiling in a modern and sleek kettle. Bernadetta chances a peek just as Hubert begins to slowly pour water over the grounded beans. She watches him as he pauses, eyes focussed on the timer while he waits for the coffee to bloom, before resuming his pouring; methodical and patient. 

She is quick to avert her eyes as soon as he finishes, hands returning to their previous duty of fidgeting and fussing over violet fabric. 

She has taken six deep breaths before a mug of freshly brewed coffee is placed in front of her, along with a small bowl of demerara sugar cubes and an even smaller jug of warm full-cream milk. It smells amazing. Not quite the same as the refreshing floral teas Ferdie used to serve - the coffee is undeniably bolder - but just as warm and homely.

“This particular blend is considerably sweeter than what I normally have,” Hubert explains as he returns to his seat. “I would advise you to take a taste sip now before you add more sugar.”

“H-how did you know I like sweet things?” She hastily changes the trajectory of her right hand, letting it curl gently around the porcelain cup. 

“I know many things, Bernadetta.” He simply says as he takes a leisurely sip of his coffee. “And if I don’t, I have my methods of finding out.”

“Right. Of course - as expected of the Bureau's Chief Investigator!”

“Miss Edelgard has high standards for her staff, and it is my privilege to exceed them. Now, please, before your drink gets cold.”

Three careful gulps later, Bernadetta is shyly asking for seconds. It is sweet, but not overly so - rich cocoa seeping past the bitter liquid tickles her tongue and leaves faint hints of spice. She adds one sugar cube though, just because. 

Hubert’s smirk is still terrifying but she finds herself not minding it as much as before, not when he’s serving her new memories of aromatic blends and companionable silence. As the minutes trickle by, she finds herself hunching over less and less. There’s a mole at the junction between the left side of his jaw and neck. His thin lips are light burgundy but deceptively warm. He has topaz eyes. 

She leaves the Bureau twenty minutes past the hour, her favourite tote bag a bit fuller than when she first arrived. Glancing in, the bag is crammed with plush yarn of various colours and a pair of knitting needles. It’s all an illusion; a visual spell to hide her monthly allowance of blood packs (temporary cooling charm included, courtesy of the Bureau's in-house witch) from the general populace. Anxiety still haunts her though, and Bernadetta dutifully brings along a project to place on top of the blood packs, just in case. 

Her fingers are back to being their usual temperature of freezing, but she can still recall the warmth of her impromptu beverage. She is reminded of Ferdie again and can’t help the giggles that come from imagining a scenario of him and Hubert debating over their choice of drink. She thinks they would have been good friends; the special kind from being polar opposites of each other. 

The walk back to her home is brisk and bittersweet. She spends the remainder of the evening in front of a blank canvas, thoughts of Hubert’s low chuckle and Ferdie’s upturned pinky replaying like a broken film in her head.

* * *

“64… ah, here we are - 66!” Exclaims the driver, turning his indicators on and slowing his delivery van to park neatly along the side of the road. Briefly checking his side mirror for any incoming traffic, he eagerly jumps out of his seat and jogs to the back of the vehicle. It’s his last parcel for today, just after sunset, and he can already smell his dinner date with Linhardt. 

“Mmm, all-you-can-eat barbeque, here I come!” yelps Caspar, a wide grin adorning his features and a slight spring to his step. Marinated beef _bulgogi_ **,** beast tongue, pork belly, pheasant skewers and all of his favourite side dishes float around in his mind. He’s drooling slightly by the time he reaches the front door and quickly wipes away the evidence with a shoulder. The doorbell is non-descript, creamy white speckled with a thin layer of dust around the crevices. The toll is monotonic. It sounds unpractised. 

“Fodlan Delivery Services - I have a package for you!” He takes a step back, previous experience having already taught him that failing to do so results in a bruised nose or forehead, or both. Caspar von Bergliez may not be the brightest, but he does learn from his mistakes. 

Satisfied that he won’t be making enemies of anyone’s door today, his calloused hands securely hold onto the box, right foot tapping rhythmically as he waits.

And waits.

This time, he adds three even knocks after ringing the doorbell. “Hello? Anybody home?”

“Um, yes. Please just leave it in front of the door.” He finds it odd he didn’t hear any footsteps before.

“Uhh sure? But I’m going to need your signature first, ma’am. Company policy!”

There’s some muttering and squeaks coming from the other side but the door remains closed. His keen ears pick up “stranger,” “Bernie,” “scared,” “sorry” and “can’t” from the otherwise nonsensical rabble. He’s beginning to wonder why he always ends up getting the weird ones. 

Glancing down at his watch - good, he’s still got plenty of time before dinner - Caspar kneels down and gently places the package just to the side of the door. His scanner lets out a cheery chime as he scans the barcode and addresses the deliveree with a clear voice. 

“Bernie, was it? Hi, I'm Caspar and there’s nothing to be scared of. I may look big but everyone says I'm pretty friendly." He can hear what he assumes is the door chain jingling, as if it is being fiddled, because the owner can’t quite decide whether to keep it locked or not. He pushes forward, optimistic. “It won't even take ten seconds. I just need you to sign this and I'll be on my way."

Waves of rich lilac and rainbow-splattered fingers greet him warily, the painted wood slowly swinging forward until grey-lavender eyes wobble up from under the messy curls. They aren't looking at him, though. 

Unfazed, he holds the scanner for her as she scribbles. A brief breeze twirls an untamed sprout of hair on top of her head. He catches whiffs of earth, woven fabrics, crisp parchment and sharp oils from her, and her home. 

Then, he smells it; the telltale tang of iron and must of age. 

"Are you a vampire?" 

* * *

He leaves Bernadetta’s package sitting on the front porch, driving back to the office with both ears ringing, and a broken scanner.

* * *

"I can see where you were trying to go with it, Caspar. But, no, really - you don't ask other creatures questions of that calibre out in the open. What if a human heard you?" 

"That's hilarious! I can't believe you did that, little bro! Aww man, I wish I'd been there to see it!" 

"I hope you understand the gravity of your actions today. See to it that it never happens again, boy." 

"Oh, dear Caspar. What are we going to do with you?" 

Caspar von Bergliez is not a particularly smart man, and some would say he's breaching into socially inept territory. Nuanced gestures elude him. Too subtle. Too bothersome. Almost abstract. 

He is unapologetically resourceful though, and uses his other senses whenever his sight fails him. His nose, specifically, is his greatest asset. Scents can tell stories; reveal secrets. Today, Caspar learnt two:

Bernie is a vampire.

Bernie is lonely.

Sighing, he rolls over, the dynamic colours of his _Knights of Seiros_ posters dulled and muted by shadows. He revisits the meeting; remembers her unruly hair, her persistent fidgeting, the smell of a home that housed her, and _only_ her, and admits his question was crude in execution. 

He'll try again, and he’ll do better next time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you so much for reading. I forgot to mention this previously, but I will be aiming for monthly updates :) 
> 
> Please feel free to share your thoughts in the comments - I am keen to know what you think, whether it be the story or on how I may improve on my prose, characterisation, grammar etc. 
> 
> See you next time. Stay safe and healthy <3


	3. Haunts and Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Descriptions of abuse. Reader discretion is advised.

It takes Sylvain eight more leftover dinners before he attempts to invite Bernadetta over for tea and book club. The little lady is shy to a fault, but then again, it’s what made him curious about her in the first place. She’s still slow to get to the door whenever he knocks, cautious and eerily quiet. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard her floorboards creak and he’s positive the house is twice his age!

Maybe she can fly? Ha. He can imagine Felix rolling his eyes at him now.

“That’s right, sweetheart. This Saturday at three. I enjoy our weekly written correspondence and front door escapades, but this current novel is simply too riveting for me to put all of my thoughts on paper. And besides,” he makes a show of checking behind him for eavesdroppers (there are none). “I know he’s a bit of a grouch but Felix dearest is curious to meet you. It’ll just be the three of us, and you can leave anytime!”

Her neighbour really is a kind man. Patient, pleasant and personable, like the charismatic heartthrobs in her countless fantasy novels. But he’s real, alive and breathing; unlike her fictional heroes and the opposite of her undead self. _He’s real_ , she confirms again, as she begins to feel the wisps of his body heat, the gentle warmth caressing and coddling her to accept.

It’s an invitation. Open and welcoming, it promises sanctuary and amity, peace and compassion. 

But what if? And there are so many what ifs; they’re the reason why she still hesitates, why she still pauses without meaning to, even though she’s known him for months now. He’s not Hubert by any means, Sylvain is _friendly,_ almost sickenly so from the moment they met - he didn’t even mind that said meeting ended with her more or less slamming the door in his face. Instead, he kept coming back, again and again, until he has wormed his way through her antisocial tendencies. 

Bernadetta studies the fine wrinkles at the corner of his eyes and lips, the strands of silver mingling within a field of auburn, the way he slightly sways because he’s been standing for awhile now and his legs aren’t as strong as they used to be. 

Human. With time, Sylvain and Felix will wither with age, while she’s cursed to be preserved in stasis. Unlike Hubert, her neighbours can’t offer the same form of stability he can. She knows because she’s been through it before, with beautiful Dorothea and proud Ferdinand. How could she have forgotten? But she had, in her brief indulgences of Sylvain's company, whether in person or in writing. Now, his age, his _mortality_ , taunts her with the looming pain of loss. 

The man is everything Bernadetta isn’t. Confident and carefree, his unprompted familiarity is blinding in the way it encases her and makes her forget that she’s lonely. In his presence and whilst reading his letters, her anxieties feel so far away, left behind as she explores numerous worlds and embarks on epic adventures with him. 

She wants to accept Sylvain’s invitation.

“I-I.. Bernie is um,” she tries. Sylvain smiles encouragingly, hazelnut eyes sincere and focussed entirely on her. 

But, it’s so, _so scary._ Her mind’s going backwards, swirling snapshots of dreadful memories; pale faces, bloodstained steel, cold lips, broken goodbyes, rigid bodies, and the fading of forest green and tangerine orange. She can’t, not again, Bernie will only bring misfor-

A pair of hands lightly clap against her shoulders, their consoling weight interrupting the shaking, allowing her to take a shuddering, deep breath. Sylvain’s smile is smaller, kinder, and far too understanding.

“Shhh, it’s alright, Bernie. If this week’s too soon, we’ll just try another time. Felix and I aren’t going anywhere.” He brings his hands down to cup hers in a soothing embrace, “and besides, it took me just over six months for you to eat my famous casserole, another month for me to be standing here talking to you like this and for Felix to finally admit he wants to meet you. What’s another month to us?” 

Bernadetta is speechless. There are no words to describe her heartbreaking experience of loss. She had tried once and fell asleep in a room littered with crumpled parchment and spilt ink, all tear-stained cheeks and raw emotions. She would do anything to never feel that way again; hide herself away from society for another century and return to a world where the Bureau employees are the only people to recognise her. It’s the easy way out.

But it’s not what Dorothea and Ferdie would have wanted. 

Whispers of a plea long gone sweep away the terrible thoughts from before and she can finally see Sylvain’s tender brown eyes again. She feels grounded, no longer falling into the abyss tucked away in the recesses of her subconscious. It tempers her frail heart.

“Another time then, Sylvain,” and counts the freckles dotting the back of his hands, forearms and the bridge of his handsome nose. “Please.”

He tightens his grip before letting go. “Of course, sweetheart. We’ll wait.”

* * *

The rope is too tight; shreds of twine digging into the delicate skin of her wrists and leaving her fingertips numb. Her feet are bound too, not to the legs of her chair, but together; modesty, her third set of chains. 

She hadn’t been proper enough, hadn’t been _good_ enough. One too many mistakes and she’s sentenced to a night of silent reflection, her own quarters a personalised dungeon of superficial safety. 

Alone, in the middle of her room. Her beloved basket of colourful threads and needles is only two paces away, unfinished meadows of spring flowers and dancing butterflies beckoning her fingers to a twitch. Her hands ache to touch anything other than the hard wooden beams against her back. She tries to inch forward, chest heaving, wrists and ankles stinging red. The chair scrapes against the bare floor. She’s less than two paces away from the basket, still in sight and out of reach. It feels infinitely further away now, despite her miniscule progress. She perseveres. Through silent tears and rubbing burns, she scratches forward, slower than a snail’s pace, until she’s in front of a beautiful garden.

Her hands stutter in their binds, uselessly reaching for reprieve in cotton and steel. She can’t touch. Only look. The realisation pricks at her harder than the scratchy rope.

But it’ll do. It’ll have to, until he decides she’s been adequately punished.

The echo of footsteps on hardwood snap her out of her self-pity, hope building and threatening to spillover and down her cheeks. She’s intimately aware of her heart beating in time with the steps, eardrums thudding, palms sweating; the numbness a distant ostinato. 

“You’ve moved.”

It’s not her mother’s shadow spilling from the lit hallway and onto her thighs. Her heart’s racing now, an unsynchronised cacophony of diastole and systole. The rest of her body is shock-still, the affliction previously affecting her hands now overtaking her limbs, torso - everything. Fear; unadultered, cold and paralysing. 

“Disappointing. You can’t even follow simple instructions to keep still, can you?” 

Bernadetta shuts her eyes, so quickly and tightly that she sees blinking lights. She apprehensively listens to the footsteps getting closer, until they stop and she knows - _he’s_ there, right next to her.

“So much as a whimper, and I will lock you in here again. No food, no paintings, no silly stuffed toys and knitting needles. Nothing.”

No matter how much she anticipates it, muscles tensed and teeth clenched, the first lash always takes her by surprise. It always burns, too, like she’s being branded, but without the scars because they always heal her afterwards. She’s grown to hate healing magic. Its soft light is no longer comforting; it’s too harsh, too frequent and nauseating. They force her to sit there, broken and swollen, until a staff hovers above her form, emitting a holy glow that unnaturally erases the welts, bruises and pain. 

It’s not healing her, not really. Not in the way that matters. They’re just removing the evidence, resetting her body for more because Bernadetta is useless and unmarriageable, and her tormentor is already bringing back his arm, readying his next strike, and it’s going towards her, to her face, straight to her eyes-

She screams.

Twilight - the spring sun is below the horizon, emitting a soft blanket of diffused light past her sheer curtains. 

Her room isn’t dark, nor is she strapped to that awful chair. Instead, she’s in bed, her feet tangled between teddy bear patterned sheets and her collection of plushies in disarray from her fitful state. The matching handkerchiefs she had been working on for Felix and Sylvain are still on the ground, right where she left them, not kicked to the side or thrown into a fire. 

Relief envelopes her, warmer and brighter than any Physic spell. 

It was just a bad dream.

* * *

It takes Bernadetta five deep breaths to answer the door.

The postman is back again, in activewear and _without_ a parcel she needs to sign for. It’s nearing evening, later than that disastrous first visit, his vivid teal hair no longer beaming in warm vermillion. Cautious, as always and particularly so for this occasion, Bernadetta opens her door slowly to stare at her unexpected guest. He’s doing his best, but failing, to hide a modest bouquet behind his back with a too-wide smile, the kind that children wear when they’re trying to make lasting impressions on adults at school.

It’s slightly creepy and she brings back the door a fraction, jolting Caspar into action with a “wait, Bernie!” He lunges forward, clumsily pushing the flowers through the small gap. They ruffle her fringe before settling to hover haphazardly in front of her face.

Purple hyacinths. An appeal for forgiveness. 

“Dedue told me these are flowers you give to someone when you’re sorry,” he offers. The vibrant petals shake left and right, up and down, bringing with them the iconic freshness of spring, of new beginnings. It tickles her nose, much like her mother’s lace collars, gentle and transient.

It’s been years since her last floral gift, the exchanges having died along with her romantic friends. Bernadetta has never received apology flowers before, though, and the thought plucks at her heartstrings and leaves her melancholic. She doesn’t move from the door, but she does ask why. Because when she thinks about it, she is the one that screamed at him, rudely slammed the door and broke his property - really, _she_ should be the one apologising. It’s always Bernie’s fault anyway.

“For scaring you? For nearly letting your neighbours find out what you are?” His right hand scratches nervously behind his ears, his brows furrowed in a frown. “I honestly didn’t mean to but,” he deflates here, shrinking in on himself in shame. 

The hyacinths move down to pet her chin.

“I obviously did, since you freaked out last time. And to be honest, I’m not the best when it comes to these things - it didn’t occur to me that I _may_ have been a little too forward with my question until basically everyone I knew lectured my ear off for it. So, I’m sorry. Really, truly, sorry.” Caspar brings his free hand forward, making a fist over his heart and bowing in a way that Ferdie would scoff as being ‘tragically adequate.’

But it’s good enough for Bernadetta. After all, she’s been saying sorry her whole life; to a father that never tried to listen, to a mother she wasn’t brave enough to save, to her dear friends, now dead for the crime of protecting her, and recently, to acquaintances and neighbours for her cowardice to befriend them. Her unwilling expertise makes it clear to her - the postman is sincere, not due to his uneven trembles or choice of flora, but from the way he bares his heart to her, trepidly balancing on the tips of white-haloed petals. 

He’s her, in all the past instances she has begged for pardon, dreading rejection, silence. Bernadetta knows exactly what she needs to say.

“Apology accepted.” It’s final, it’s solace. It’s a pause too late that Caspar nearly misses it. 

“Really?” Hopeful aquamarine gleams from the kaleidoscope of mauve, violet and amethyst. There are the beginnings of goosebumps on the arm closest to her, whether from the evening chill, the sun having fully set now and casting them in the dim glow of street lamps, or from nervousness, she’s not sure. She secretly hopes it’s because of the latter, even a tiny bit would do. She can find courage in solidarity - Dorothea taught her to.

The bouquet is surrendered to a new owner. The door unexpectedly swings forward, wide enough for Bernadetta to take a daring step forward, her lovely hyacinths the only barrier between them. 

“Really. B-but promise me one thing.” Surprisingly, she realises it isn’t too difficult to meet Caspar’s gaze; the task of lifting her chin is not as daunting as it normally is, thanks to his less intimidating height (sorry, Hubert). It’s a nice change, even if it is unfamiliar, and she could only maintain it for no little more than three seconds. But it’s another bold move, on top of leaving the safety of her front door, and the rush she feels makes her shift the flowers lower to reveal the rest of her pale countenance. 

Caspar is eager to please. “Sure! Anything you want.” His smile is a ray of encouragement, brilliant and electrifying.

Bernadetta grasps onto that sliver of sunshine, and doesn’t let go. 

“Y-you. Promise me that it’ll o-only be you delivering packages to me from now on. No more strangers, just you.”

She remembers it being chaotic afterwards, loud assurances guaranteed to get salacious winks from Sylvain, and her entire body thrumming from the aftermath of Caspar's explosive joy. 

What she remembers most though, dearly, and for the many, many, _many_ years to come, are Caspar's hands, unapologetically rough in how tightly they squeeze hers, and his erratic pulse that promises to safekeep her bravery. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for stopping by! I'm excited to write how Bernie continues to grow with the help of her new friends. Stay safe everyone <3
> 
> I'll probably change the chapter titles (or remove them entirely) later lol see how I go :P


	4. Companions and Guardians

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: A couple of lines that delve a bit into Bernie's survival guilt and how she wishes it were her (but nothing explicit) rather than her friends. I have bumped the rating to M though, just to be safe.

Caspar loves early starts and Byleth is reliably punctual. So, it’s a usual occurrence for the two of them to be the first ones to clock-in at the head office; the former will tumble in after his morning gym session, showered with protein shake in hand, and the latter will saunter in calmly, one to five minutes after the blue-haired hurricane depending on traffic, reusable cup nestled comfortably in both hands and face expressionless as they join Caspar across the table. 

The room is quiet for a few blissful seconds before Caspar, legs restless against the carpeted floor, goes on the initiative, “hey, Byleth? Could you assign me as the driver for all of the deliveries to the inner south?”

Byleth’s indigo eyes blink once, twice, “that’s an odd request, did something happen?” 

“Remember the little incident I had last week? She asked me to be the only one to deliver to her from now on - said she didn’t want any more strangers coming to her house.”

“And, you’re not one?” Byleth counters, neutral profile finally folding into confusion.

“Not after I gave her flowers and said I was sorry!” 

There’s a long, deliberate silence as Byleth mulls over what they just heard. Caspar, brash and with romantic tendencies to rival a trash can, had the emotional intelligence to give flowers to someone, and succeeded?

Byleth downs the last of their Morfis plum latte with a sobering gulp. The Apocalypse is here. Caspar has finally graduated from the class of hot-headed bachelor! Next thing they’d know, Manuela has finally found her One True Love and left her life of shallow first meetings and passionless nights. 

What a time to be alive.

“Sure, it’s not going to happen overnight though since there are some logistics I’ll need to sort out,” warns Byleth as they walk over to the sink to rinse out their cup. “But Raphael should be fine to swap with you. In fact, I think one of your designated areas is where his sister works.” 

“Awesome! In the meantime, could you pass on anything that’s to 66 Mila Lane, or anything that’s going near there, to me? I’ll drop by after work to let her know the situation is all sorted.”

“Of course, Caspar.” The kettle is boiling as they grab a random teabag from their trusty satchel, charmed to retain freshness. It looks like today’s flavour will be the subtle Crescent Moon Tea - perfect, it will pair well with Mercedes’ famous Albinean berry danish. They offer half of it, wearing a gentle smile as they always do when partaking in cheeky treats.

“Oh wow! Are these from Mercedes? Hell yeah I’ll have some!” He wastes no time in devouring the pastry, his noisy chewing chorusing with the kettle’s beeping. “Oh, that reminds me. I’ll need to thank Dedue for the flowers.”

Honestly, Byleth doesn’t quite understand why they thought Caspar has matured enough to handle such a delicate situation without any outside help. Although his heart is always in the right place, the man is prone to horrifically fumbling his way through life’s more sensitive challenges. It’s endearing, in its own unique way, but there is a limit to how long one can be a victim to secondhand embarrassment. 

Caspar’s success is likely due to the combined efforts of Dedue’s prudent advice and Mercedes’ motherly encouragement. It all makes sense now. 

The world isn’t ending. Caspar is still a lovable idiot and there’s a high chance Manuela (most definitely) is still single. Byleth hums thoughtfully, carefully sipping their tea. They should probably pay her a visit, soon. 

* * *

Today is one of the hard days. 

Another lonely night, Bernadetta dutifully drinks from her daily blood bag, missing Sylvain’s vivacious meals as she prods at her meat pie. It’s another week before her appointment with Hubert, too, lamenting her cowardice to go outside and meet new people. 

She knows she's getting better. She has been, ever since that fateful afternoon when she left the door open for too long, inadvertently letting Sylvain invite himself into her monotonous routine. Since then, Bernadetta begins to see the small but sure signs of change; in every less second she takes to greet Sylvain, in every millisecond more she looks Hubert in the eye. 

(And in the small victories of being able to talk to a stranger, even if they did most of the talking)

But without the distractions of Sylvain's colourful conversations and Hubert's bittersweet brew, she returns to being unguarded from the spectres of her past. As soon as she sets her fork down, her mind is beset once again, falling prey to her inner demons. 

Tonight's torture attacks the krux of her insecurities. 

Three hundred years. Three hundred years since her last day at Varley Manor. Three hundred years since she last saw her friends, mangled and bloodied.

And she has only been awake for ten months of it. 

Guilt gnaws and claws away from where the food sits inside her stomach. It's a familiar sensation, almost like heartburn but infinitely more terrible and cold. She remembers the blur of battle, being too late, cut-short goodbyes and the long, arduous task of burying the dead. After that, she recalls nothing, just an unforgiving blank period before she sees the moon, shining directly above her, and Edelgard’s gloved hand. 

She remembers waking up and realising she had broken her promise, on the day it was made.

_“My beautiful and brave Bernie. Find happiness. Enough and more, for the three of us.”_

It’s not long before the tears come, rolling down in fat droplets, staining the tablecloth until multiple pools merge into one. She wonders how Dorothea and Ferdie would look at her now - with pity? Disappointment? Are they even watching over her to begin with? She's not sad, but she isn't happy either, and the feeling of being unable to meet the expectations of her two most important companions cuts hotter and deeper than all of her father's lashings. 

It's on days like this, when she's alone and realises she has only made baby steps towards her goal, that makes Bernadetta wish it had been her on that night of morbid farewells. They deserve better, more than Bernie anyways. 

Resigned to another night of red-rimmed eyes and stuttering sniffles, Bernadetta gets up to hide away in her bedroom, unmotivated to paint or to tend to her plants. She’s halfway there before she hears three loud knocks, and an even louder voice.

“Bernie, you there? It’s me, Caspar!”

How is it that he has such impeccable timing? Bernadetta wavers for a brief moment before she clutches onto this lifeline, honing in on Caspar’s bright tenor. The romantic in her wants to believe that this is a sign from her late friends, the pessimistic taunts that it’s just a coincidence. 

Either way, Caspar is here and that’s all she needs to hold off her tormentors, for the time being at the very least.

 _He’s not human, he’s not human, he’s not human, is_ the fervent mantra Bernadetta chants in her head. Even before seeing familiar faces, she still requires some mental preparation. Old habits die hard, especially ones she has practised since childhood, ingrained into her like a curse. 

Four deep, quivering breaths later, she opens the door.

He’s not hiding the flowers this time. Instead, he’s waving them at her face, a parade of sunny yellows, dainty pinks and rich greens, their sweet fragrance dancing boldly and overpowering her senses. They’re meticulously arranged, or used to be, as it seems an unfortunate few have been squished from Caspar’s aggressive treatment. 

Bernadetta gasps, hands clamouring up to save the flowers. They’re beautiful, and it confuses her, for she has not done anything to warrant such a gift. It’s unbidden. Unexpected.

It’s kindness.

“Just like I promised, I’ll be delivering to your area from now on! So you don’t have to worry about - woah, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

_Now you’ve done it, Bernie. No one wants to be friends with a useless crybaby._

And the trauma of her past is laid bare before him; eyes glossy with a wet sheen, shoulders hunched and shuddering, lips shut thin because she’s been taught, beaten, to stay silent. She’s mumbling incoherently from behind the cluster of chrysanthemum and alstroemerias, emotions running wild in the constant push and pull of feeling like she’s worth something, and not. 

Calloused hands snatch onto her wrists. Surprised, she drops the flowers, watching them bounce on her foot before rolling to the door frame. 

Intense teal eyes keep her in place.

“I don’t know what you’re going through, but even I can tell staying cooped up in here isn’t helping. C’mon, I’ll take you somewhere special.” 

_What?_

He doesn’t wait for a response. Hastily picking up the dropped bouquet, Caspar forces it into her right hand before grabbing her left with the same roughness as the previous night. He pulls her, towards him, then outside, down the steps, along the pathway of her quiet street, across intersections, over an untended field, until they reach a bridge she’s never been to and he abruptly stops, finally letting go and smiling at her as if he hadn’t just pseudo-kidnapped a woman.

“Well, what do you think?”

“W-what do I think?!” She screeches, bewildered and terrified. “I think I just died!”

“Ouch, calm down, would you?” Caspar winces, ears no doubt ringing from Bernadetta’s outburst. “Here,” he closes the space between them, hands on her shoulders to turn her towards the river.

She jolts slightly at the contact, squeaking and stilling instinctively, eyes bolting shut.

 _This is it, Bernie. He’s going to push you off this godforsaken bridge and you’ll meet your watery demise. Oh, how I wished to have had a proper Last Meal_.

“Open your eyes, silly.”

The view, quite literally, takes her breath away. 

Stars. Hundreds, thousands, _millions_ of them scattered across a moving, midnight-black canvas. The half moon is there too, radiant and rippling amongst the ribbon of shimmering sparkles. Caspar is right behind her, hands gliding off her shoulder to rest on the rails, encasing her between solid arms. But Bernadetta doesn’t notice, too busy peering over, curious to see how far the galaxy goes. When she leans forward a bit too far, he steadies her at the waist. It makes her jolt again, and she swears her heart, now beating thanks to her earlier feed, trips in response. 

She whirls around and is swallowed by a morning sky speckled with diamonds. They’re so close, chests only a wilting bouquet apart. She has read enough trashy romance novels to predict where this is headed, pupils widening in anticipation. 

Unfortunately for Bernadetta, Caspar isn’t your stereotypical male love interest. No sooner has she started recalling famous kiss scenes, he grins with a light-hearted chuckle as he beckons her with a tilt of his chin, to look over the bridge once more. 

“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” He asks rhetorically, hands moving back up to the rails, unbeknownst to Bernadetta’s embarrassing imagination. Her blush burns ferociously across her cheeks. Caspar doesn’t seem to notice.

“I come here to clear my head sometimes,” he says, “it’s a bit annoying to get to though, so there aren’t many visitors. Pretty much none if you come this late.” The smile he gives her is wider than the last, showing sharp canines and decorating his left cheek with a single dimple. “It’s the perfect spot for you, don’tcha think?”

This time, he waits for her answer. 

Bernadetta doesn’t know what to say, for the man just keeps surprising her. But she does know that the cruel voices and frightening memories aren’t plaguing her anymore, shut-out from this quiet haven. The sound of the flowing river is calming, lulling her into a peace she hasn’t felt since forever. She gazes down and feels she can just stare at the flickering starlight below, for as long as she needs to and without anyone judging her.

“Thank you,” she whispers, throat tightening up in gratitude.

Caspar’s breath flutters close to her ear, “anytime, Bernadetta. Anytime.”

Time is a strict healer. Ten months ago, she learned the hard lesson that the treatment came with conditions and sleeping for three centuries isn’t one of them. It’s also slow, the effectiveness of its medicine heavily contingent on their patient’s fortitude. 

Needless to say, Bernadetta’s prognosis had been poor from the beginning. 

But not anymore, she thinks, hugging the flowers close to her steadying heart. She has finally found an idyllic retreat outside of her room, and it even comes with a guardian. 

* * *

‘So,” copper eyes dance below wagging eyebrows, shameless and teasing, ‘the delivery man, eh? Didn’t take you to be the muscle-loving type, princess, since the old one was built like a War Master caricature and you’ve never made a move on him. But,” and he draws the word out, languid and unmistakably insinuating saucy secrets, “with this one, it _sounded_ like you two had _a lot_ of fun.”

Bernadetta drops her evening-breakfast, mouth agape in shock. Fortunately, the food is spared from exposure, Sylvain having packed it in tupperware on the likely chance she would react this way. He chuckles lightly, quickly ducking down to retrieve the container for her. 

“I-i-it’s not what you think! Bernie’s no harlot! Begone, dirty thoughts!” 

“Mhmm, ‘course not, sweetheart. I’m just having a little fun. Here.” 

She doesn’t fully believe him, but gratefully takes the food anyway. It’s one of her favourites, a Sylvain original, boasting delicate treasures of evenly cut seasonal vegetables and slow-cooked, spiced lamb. _It’s a special dish, sweetheart - gave Felix the courage to finally settle down with me. So, it’s basically love, in tasty bites!_

She remembers her first mouthful quite fondly; the juicy morsels sent her reanimated taste buds on a blissful tour of bold flavours and left her with the enveloping warmth of comfort for the remainder of the day. It’s a meal of genuine affections. Initially, she didn’t feel deserving of something with such significant sentiments. But with each successive bowl, each satisfied spoonful, the nagging self-doubt is slowly swallowed away. 

“Gotta say though, he must be something else if he got you talking to him so quickly,” he comments casually. “It’s enough to make an old man jealous! So, Bernie, what’s his secret, hm? Is it the arms?” Sylvain’s signature wink is extra playful today and it sets off a million butterflies inside her. 

“Flowers. Really... nice ones.” 

“Ah.” The wink is gone, replaced by a pair of tender sunsets. “Now, isn’t that lovely?”

She stiffly nods her head in response, hands wringing and adorably shy. It gives Sylvain an idea.

“Say, how about you bring him along to ours? Y’know, he could be your Perceval, or Reinhardt, or Frederick! Your own loyal knight, protecting you from the unknown.”

It’s not a terrible proposition, Bernadetta doesn’t doubt that Caspar would come to her rescue if she ever found herself as the Damsel In Distress, but…

“Sylvain,” she begins, giggling lightly, “Caspar is _loud_.”

“Oh, right. How could I forget?” Warm amber eyes wander up the dreary white of her house, a wrinkled knuckle coming up to rest against his chin. “Guess he’d be more like, Cain? Hector? Ooh, Hinata? The caring but reckless retainer! Definitely not Bartre, I’m afraid - not enough hair.’

Twinkling, merry, colourful elation. It’s the first time Sylvain hears Bernadetta laugh, _really_ laugh. It’s refreshing, as cliché as it is - to see her so uninhibited and carefree, as she tightly clutches the container to her face, hiding her joy behind a shield of plastic. He thinks it’s absolutely delightful.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then? I’ll let Felix know he’s got an arm wrestling champion coming his wa-”

He suddenly straightens, a dramatic gasp accompanying wide eyes. “Oh dear,” he whispers, “what if Felix falls for him?” 

Bernadetta just laughs harder. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the chapter!
> 
> Chrysanthemums: A flower that provokes powerful emotions, positive or negative depending on the culture. Yellow variants can represent lasting friendship, joy and fortune. In some cultures, it symbolises neglected love and sorrow. 
> 
> Alstroemerias: Devotion and friendship.


	5. Friends?

As lovely as their starlit rendezvous was, Bernadetta makes Caspar promise to accompany her to afternoon tea as recompense. 

The living room is pleasantly quiet, only briefly interrupted by the intermittent rustle of pages and thud of solid fists against polished oak. Sylvain’s generous spread of baked goods is mostly devoured, the teapot half-empty. It seems Caspar finally has the upperhand this round, his and Felix’s hands shaking into view.

“Oof!”

“Another one.”

“Again? How, _why_ are you so strong, old man?!”

“C-Caspar! That’s a rude thing to say. Apologise to Felix!” Screeches Bernie, nearly spilling tea over the yellowed pages of _Radiant Dawn_ in her haste to reprimand her plus one.

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. Felix’s got dragon scales for skin - he isn’t gonna get upset over being called a grandpa, not when the word _strong_ is in there too.” Assures Sylvain, discreetly procuring a handkerchief to wipe away at the small droplets that have landed on the table. His light brown eyes sparkle with their usual mirth, crinkling, “in fact, he actually likes it, if you know what I mean.”

Speechless, and with the beginnings of a deep rouge dusting over her cheeks, Bernadetta nibbles on her tart lemon slice, hoping to recover from the scandalous commentary. She can see Caspar’s keen ears twitching, faintly tanned and definitely not blushing, blissfully unaware of Sylvain’s innuendo and Bernadetta’s embarrassment. 

“Oi, stop feeding her nonsense, you’re going to make her bust a blood vessel.” Says Felix, rearranging their arms into position for the rematch.

“Bernie’s going to what?!” Unconsciously, the blue-haired youth shifts his own arm closer as he turns to catch a glimpse of Bernadetta in the living room. 

Felix huffs disapprovingly, blowing at loose grey strands and rolling his stern eyes at the absurdity of it all. “Goddesses, it’s a figure of speech! Look, she’s fine, just fretting over my idiot husband’s perverse jokes.” He forcefully pulls Caspar’s arm back.

“He’s doing _perverted_ things to Bernie?! Oh, I’m gonna-” and he’s completely facing them now, spilling out of his seat, face twisted in a half-snarl and a low guttural growl rumbling in the air. 

Just as quickly, lithe arms reach over the dining table to latch on to the back of Caspar’s belt, keeping him still. “Bloody Sothis, are you even listening to me?! Settle down!”

“But Bernie is-”

“Is fine. See for yourself,” Felix loosens his hold, slacking his arm enough for Caspar to take a fumbling step forward. “Kids these days, wouldn’t last a damn day on the field,” he mutters with a frown.

If there’s one thing Bernadetta learns this turbulent afternoon of Begnion politics, exorbitant grunts and zesty treats, it’s that Caspar’s form of justice is thorough and kind. Protective. 

Worried eyes meet hers, imploring, “Bernadetta? Everything okay?” 

She simply nods; too red-faced and admittedly, touched by her guest’s behaviour to word a response. There’s a tense second; of him enquiring and her reassuring, before he falls back into friendly competition, “alright! Where were we?”

It’s a new experience; neither Dorothea nor Ferdie were ever this rash, and it’s like little electric shocks are running along her body, pinpricks of _he cares_ and _he would have been good friends with them_. She runs the pads of her thumbs over warm porcelain, pensive as she watches Caspar lose another round. It’s a nice experience. 

“Just like his namesake, eh?” Says Sylvain, refilling her mug with practised ease, sweet floral hints wafting in the space between them. He’s smiling at her, kind and genuine, so reminiscent of Ferdie she almost believes she’s back in House Aegir, surrounded by noble blooms in a pristine gazebo. Bernadetta blinks away the memory, eyelashes quickly flitting atop her rosy cheeks. The usual ache isn’t there, and the blessing scares Bernadetta somewhat, not yet well-versed in this foreign sensation of non-guilt. 

“Bernie’s not a treasure though. I’m ordinary, a-and an introvert.”

“Not to him, it seems,” he dissents, resolutely. “You may be ordinary but you’re special to some. I think it’s high time you start seeing yourself that way too.”

Maybe it’s because Sylvain isn’t someone from her past; isn’t privy to her prologue of closed doors and failed engagements. His validation hits a bit harder, because for all the time they have spent together, nearly two months of parchment and hand-me-down dinners, he doesn’t really _know_ her. And yet…

He finds her _special_ and apparently, it’s not just him.

“Hold him close, sweetheart. This one’s a keeper.”

She doesn’t miss the teasing undertones in his advice, lacing his gentle smile with harmless mischief. Bernadetta briefly wonders if anti-blushing draughts are a thing, and whether she could ask Hubert for a lifetime supply.

“H-h-he’s just a friend, Sylvain! Please, stop teasing me!”

“Hey, what’cha teasing Bernie for?!”

“Cichol’s arse, get back here!”

It’s chaotic; watching Caspar try to wrestle his way out of Felix’s iron grip, his near-feral eyes treading the fine line between sanity and madness. The other man is not yielding the slightest, filling the house with muttered curses and promises of discipline “if you don’t fucking behave, you incorrigable fool!” Sylvain’s got his head thrown back, hollering, exuberant and not at all afraid of what the misunderstanding _this time_ could mean for his physical wellbeing. 

It’s a beautiful mess, she thinks, rushing over with cold hands to hold Caspar’s fists between them (or as best she can, Bernie has small hands after all). She’s going to have to endure another cheeky tirade from her neighbour, but Bernadetta can’t find it in herself to mind anymore, not when she can feel Caspar calming almost instantly at her touch, like a reflex to her presence. 

_Not to him… You’re special to some._

Hands held steady, she feels like they’re on the bridge again. Except, she’s the one leading, taking the reins for once, and the lack of stars covering the pale cream ceiling does little to diminish the magic of this extraordinary feeling hammering inside her chest. Sylvain deftly pulls Felix away towards the kitchen counter, shooting her a wink, teapot in hand. Caspar pays them no mind, teal eyes completely trained on Bernadetta, electrifying. 

This afternoon hasn’t been quite the one she initially imagined - full of unexpected conversations and copious amounts of yelling. Once again, Bernadetta finds herself in another unpredictable predicament, inches away from a werewolf, refusing to let go.

And Caspar doesn’t seem to mind it. 

A leap of faith then, she surmises, studying calluses and faded knuckle scars. To unlock the gates and bare her heart a bit more; to finally be open to acceptance and agency when it’s been so long since she last had those. To be brave.

_He’s not human, Bernie. He’s here to stay._

She jumps.

* * *

It doesn't take long for Caspar to become another constant in Bernadetta’s life.

True to his word, he’s the only man she sees whenever she answers the door for a delivery. Her orders of demineralised water for her carnivorous plants, packets of fabric swatches and boxes of art supplies are no longer dreaded heralds of strangers. Instead, they have become promises of familiarity; gifts of gleaming aquamarine and boisterous laughter. 

It also doesn’t take long for him to start coming by, unannounced and unwarranted, with no reason except, “I just wanted to see you.” 

(Alone, when the terrors intrude, Bernadetta clings onto those words.) 

There’s no set day or time for when he visits, but it’s usually after her breakfast, right when the sky is shedding its light blue gown for an intimate deep peach ensemble. Some weeks he’ll visit every second day, others maybe once. But whenever he does, it's always with bright flowers and an even brighter grin. 

They settle into this half routine, of him visiting and giving, filling her house with silk-soft petals and nature’s perfume. She starts to grow comfortable with seeing him, _expecting_ him. 

"Caspar," she quips behind a playful bunch of wild daisies, "you're giving me too much!" 

"And?" His eyes furrowed in a frown, not quite sure what the problem is. "You like them, don't you?" 

"O-of course, I do! But… I've run out of places to put them in."

"Oh, really?" He asks, brow relaxing with ease, “just replace the old ones, it doesn’t bother me.”

"But buying them can't be cheap! You sh-shouldn’t waste money on Bernie." 

His smile disappears then, “stop that.”

“What?”

“Putting yourself down, saying crap like you’re a _waste_ , of anything! You should learn to just accept these things, Bernie, get rid of that negative attitude of yours. And besides,” he adds, arms folded, “I like it when you’re happy.”

Honest and good. Caspar doesn’t just deliver parcels and flowers to Bernadetta, but seeds of self-confidence too. Their roots burrow deep into the landscape of her guilt, slowly growing into sprouts of assertiveness. It manifests as outbursts to Caspar’s innocent ignorance; berating him to be more gentle, ungainly shrieking whenever he’s about to let slip their otherworldly identities, huffing because he’s just so _oblivious_ to the effect he has on her. 

“Well,” she says with a petulant pout, blushing as she so often does now around him and his cheer, “it’s still a waste regardless. Letting perfectly healthy flowers wither away like that.’

“Why not just plant them then?”

Unfortunately, her front lawn is in a poor state, neglected since her arrival. She only gets halfway explaining the barren condition of her garden before Caspar’s grabbing onto her hand and scurrying her away to a new destination, to the unknown. 

It’s a whirlwind of a journey, thoughts of _not again_ and _did I close the door this time_ , echoing in her head as they traverse through unfamiliar roads and rush past unfamiliar buildings. Five, ten, twenty minutes pace by and they arrive in front of a quaint restaurant. There are low lit lanterns and a rustic sign with the name, Secret Garden, skillfully carved into it. 

She glances at Caspar, confused. How is food going to give her a green thumb?

Noticing the way she’s scrunching her nose, wary and suspicious, he smiles encouragingly, keeping their hands together. He doesn’t let go, even after he pushes open the door, pulling her along onto polished wooden tiles, into another world.

Bernadetta smells the flowers before she sees them.

Lily of the valley, wisterias, love-in-a-mist, sweet peas, cosmos, lotuses and gladiolus; varieties from all over Fodlan and beyond. All in full bloom, decorating the walls and tables in harmonious hues; passionate reds and jovial oranges to her left, melancholic blues and royal purples next to the register. It’s like walking into a rainbow, a kaleidoscope of vibrant and dazzling colours. And the aroma. _Goddesses_ , she could only describe it as love. Because it could only be love that would make these children of the earth preen and dance so joyfully underneath rose-coloured stained glass windows. Love, for life to thrive like this. 

Whoever tended to these flowers must be a saint.

“My, if it isn’t Caspar! To what do we owe the pleasure?”

A beautiful woman glides up to them, her melodic voice all shades of welcoming and warmth. Her hair, an elegant bob of golden wheat, glows underneath sheer lace, glistening against the plain beige of her long-sleeved dress. Bernadetta finds herself half-hiding behind Caspar’s arm, nervous but curious all the same. She’s normally skittish around new faces, but this stranger’s demeanour feels like a bed of soft feathers, a mother’s gentle embrace. 

“Hey Mercedes! Is Dedue busy? My friend here wants some help with her garden.” 

“Is that so? Dedue would be more than happy to assist. But before I go fetch him,” the lady peeks past Caspar, smiling kindly. “What’s your name, sweet violet?”

“Ah, I’m, um, I-I mean, my name is B-Bernie, miss!” It’s not her best self-introduction, bordering on atrocious, but Caspar’s thumb is rubbing over her fingers, encouraging, and Bernadetta decides it isn’t going to be the end of the world. 

“Oh, so you’re Caspar’s Bernie, hm?” The twinkle in her eyes looks dangerously similar. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, dear. And no need to be so formal - please, just call me Mercie.” She ushers them to a booth with purple lilacs, “sit tight, I won’t be a moment.”

The meaning of the blooms isn’t lost on Bernadetta, prompting light dusty pink to seep across her pale profile. 

“Everything okay, Bernie? You’re lookin’ a bit red,” he asks, leaning forward. 

“Uh-huh, yup! Nothing wrong with Bernie! J-just excited to see so many pretty flowers!” She lies, quickly whipping back the hand held in Caspar’s, splaying fingers against her own cheeks. 

“Oh, is that all? You’re a weird one.” It’s not an insult. How can it be when he’s chuckling? Light-hearted and dynamic. 

They’re the only customers in this charming restaurant, sitting side-by-side at an equally charming seat. The pleasantly dim lights cast an almost ethereal glow, accentuating Caspar’s intense blue eyes, burning bright atop faded freckles. 

“But,” he continues, “that’s probably why I like you so much. Nothing’s boring when you’re around.”

No one would fault her for interpreting it as a love confession. But Bernadetta knows Caspar now, maybe a bit more than she does herself on some days, and she _knows_ when Caspar says he likes someone, it’s in the truest sense of the word. Platonic and pure. 

Bernadetta isn’t looking for romance - she’s unmarriageable, even more so after her Turning. Finding love, like the radiant and passionate kind she witnessed between Dorothea and Ferdinand, is a privilege she’s long resigned herself from.

However, it’s not a need either. Her hand wanders, lightly grazing his knuckles before interlocking their fingers. It’s approaching natural, this action of seeking him, of clinging onto something other than her own plush toys and bare skin. He’s melding into something familiar and sentimental; becoming another Dorothea and Ferdie.

“So, there’s this really cool place I want to take you next! You like those man-eating plants, right?”

Bernadetta isn’t looking for romance, not at all. 

But Caspar von Bergliez might just change her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, but I hope the steps forward in Bernie and Caspar's relationship made up for it? Either way, thank you so kindly for stopping by <3
> 
> Caspar: Treasurer / Keeper of the treasure (so yes, pun totally intended ;D)
> 
> Lilacs: Flowers that are associated with love and affection, they are usually the first to bloom in warmer seasons. The shade for which the flowers are named after, symbolises first loves.


	6. Friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must apologise for not updating this sooner - it has been a crazy couple of months irl, but it looks like things have settled down :) to anyone that has stuck around for this long, I would like to thank you immensely for your patience and support. I hope you are all being kind to yourselves during these trying times, and that this fanfic brings a smidge of positivity to you all.

“And we’re here! Whaddya think?”

Caspar, so adamant in his personal quest to re-introduce the recluse to the outside world, drags Bernadetta any and everywhere. The sights and places range from the mundane to the extraordinary; night blooms, twilights on rooftops, four oak trees standing sentry on a lone hill, bustling night markets and the city landscape dotted by moving lights. 

She tells him the world has changed plenty in three hundred years.

He responds by laughing, " _of course it would, Bernie! It's three hundred years!_ "

“To an autumn breeze, my heart flutters down slowly. Crisp, sweet memories.”

There’s a pause as he furrows his brow in concentration, trying to decipher the imagery and the intent. Linhardt said poetry was supposed to be easy! “I’m guessing you like it, then?”

“Yes, as with everything you have shown me.” Bernadetta surveys the avenue with a soft gaze and Caspar knows she’s imagining what it would look like in sunlight. “I think I would like to paint this one later. Red and orange are very dear to me.”

“Is that so? Well, you know the drill, scoot over.”

He takes _at least_ three photos, having learnt his lesson when he noticed how her eyes squinted at his first blurry mess. In all honesty, it isn’t an issue if they have to return to this spot a few nights later - the trees will still be here and more time with Bernie is always welcome. But recreating a scenery on paper, on the same night she sees it, is just one of the particular things the vampire likes to do.

And so, Caspar takes photos, carefully and many of them. How could he not, when instead of quiet sniffles, he hears the quiet hum of an old lover’s ballad drifting from her bedroom window? 

(It’s been a habit since that starlit night, to escort her home and then wait at the steps of her porch, listening for demons that may or may not come.

He’s had to save her twice - once after their stroll through the Rose Gardens, and another after they visited the Royal Opera House. He’s not quite sure why, or how, those places came to be her sources of hurt, but he’s sure it’s not the right time to ask, yet. Because as much as his family and friends like to think of him as an idiot, he’s not a completely _hopeless_ idiot.

Bernadetta isn’t quite ready and that’s fine, really - water under the bridge, as they say!)

“C’mere,” he beckons, inviting and gentle, because it’s what she’s asked. 

“Let me press the button this time since you always get me with my eyes half-closed! I swear you’re doing it on purpose, making Bernie look unflattering.” She grumbles, sliding into the offered space against his chest. Caspar doesn’t tell her he knows she isn’t mad, not entirely anyway.

“They’re super funny though, Bernie!” He says, hand coming down to rest on top of her shoulder, laughing because he can very clearly recall her half-lidded comedic gold, having kept the photos despite her insistence to purge them from existence. He doesn’t share them, though - because one-quarter: she would probably, most likely, _definitely_ , kill him if he did, and three-quarters: it’s a small part of Bernadetta which only he can see.

Just as she wants him as her only deliveryman, he wants unflattering, half-lidded Bernie as their own special secret.

She's pouting now, cheeks extra rosy and a glare so fierce, his pulse quickens at the almost-danger of it. Odd. Another thing to ask Linhardt.

"But I guess Sylvain and Felix would prefer seeing you with your eyes open," he relents, moving his phone so that it hovers low enough for her to reach. "Okay, ready wh-hey!”

_Snap. Snap._

And there it is, the increasingly familiar stuttering chimes of joy coming from her mouth. She’s spouting mischief too, quickly ducking under his arm with _that_ manoeuvre Felix never could get his head around, already sending the photo by the time he’s swung around to chase her. Damn vampires and their super-speed bullshittery.

“You did that on purpose!” Caspar laughs, because Bernadetta is being endearingly impossible and it’s another side of her he’d like to see more of.

“And now we’re even!” She counters, cheekily, spinning and hopping just out of his reach, fingertips whiffing the worn cotton of her favourite hoodie. She’s standing two paces away now, the grinning bear floating in a sea of purple as if mocking him, almost insulting with the embellished bowtie, silk tophat and pretentious monocle.

Caspar wonders if he could convince her to give the bear some armour instead.

“You’re lucky I'm on wolfsbane this week," eyes wide and burning under the moonlight, "otherwise, I'd have caught you and that fancy bear by now."

Which may have been the wrong thing to say, because the spring in her step runs taut, leaving her stuck and timid. There's already an apology dashing out, his hands following right after, to clasp hers, to anchor her, since it's what he knows to do and what she needs when this happens.

But then she shakes. First, her head, then the rest of her body, as if whatever’s taken a hold of her is something physical to be warded off like falling autumn leaves. 

And it must not have been (can’t have been) - because she’s still tremoring, little quakes he can see and feel as he firmly, gently, slowly, holds her hands and steadies them with the even beating of his heart.

She dares to look into his eyes. 

He thinks she’s the bravest person in the world.

“I’m here,” he says, louder than a whisper because quiet and Caspar are like oil and water.

Bernadetta doesn’t reply, but the slight tug of her arm tells him she’s here too. 

They stay like that, connected, hands entwined in this little ritual of theirs, until she’s pressing her cheek against his knuckles, his chest, no longer shuddering. Calm. 

“C’mon, let's go see Dedue and Mercedes - have some of that fish you like so much, and cake!” Bright and infectious like starfire, he wastes no time in bringing her attention to warmer people and warmer places. “Maybe even start on the painting? Did you bring your sketchbook?”

“Of course! B-Bernie always comes prepared.” She’s not giggling, but the small smile dimpling her cheeks promises Caspar it won’t be long till he can hear it again.

“Alright! Hold on tight then, Bernie.” He instructs, before ducking down to sweep her off her feet, as Sylvain has not-so-subtly told him to do, many times, because “it’s what the little princess would want,” and Caspar is more than happy to oblige.

Her high pitched squeal makes him think Sylvain was setting him up for murder, deafening as it is. He’s beginning to kneel down because okay, maybe Sylvain was just pulling his leg when the old man said this was an idiot-proof tactic to make Bernie happy. And he would really like to avoid having that horrible ringing in his ears. Especially when he knows Ashe is on-shift and they have the latest season of the _Knights of Seiros_ to talk about.

So, in the middle of the avenue, he waits. 

And waits.

But Bernadetta only tightens her grip around his shoulders, inching closer, chin down.

“G-gently.”

Ah, right. How could he forget?

“Gently,” he confirms, readjusting so he’s holding her _up_ , rather than _in_ , because Bernie isn’t supposed to be caged, she needs to fly. 

It’s a difference Caspar’s learnt to appreciate.

“Fódlan Delivery Services, moving out!” And he’s half-jogging towards their destination.

She makes him put her down a few blocks away from the Secret Garden, citing a sore back, werewolf sweat and “n-n-no, no, no! Bernie is not embarrassed! Away with you, silly accusations!”

He yields, sniffing himself since lycanthrope body odour _can_ be awful and he doesn’t mean to offend any patrons. Weird, he smells fine? 

“Um, Bernie? You okay? You’re red again.”

“Come take me, sweet Death. For my emotions run wild, and unrequited.”

He’s definitely asking Linhardt about that one.

* * *

Belly full and Bernadetta safely escorted back, Caspar finally returns home, collapsing face first onto a half-made bed and cool pillow. He blindly reaches for his back pocket, fishing out his phone to set an alarm and charge it on the bedside table. There’s a new message from Sylvain and it reminds him to check the phone’s gallery to see the photo Bernadetta had taken earlier.

The first one is what he expected; Bernadetta with her eyes fully open and facing the camera, while his are closed, and with his mouth puckered mid-sentence. 

Chuckling, Caspar swipes to the next one and-

Oh. 

Now _this_ is special. 

It’s the same image except for a key difference - _both_ of their eyes are half-closed, in a way that is exactly what Bernadetta described it as, unflattering. 

But isn’t she supposed to hate these kinds of photos? It’s almost as if she knew all along, that he never did delete those photos; and realising this is making his stomach flip and flop in all sorts of ways, making his pulse suddenly leap and sprint. He wonders what that could mean?

Linhardt is going to be very busy tomorrow. 

Rolling over, Caspar settles into a more comfortable position, the sound of Bernadetta giggling, at him, echoing at the forefront of his memory. 

It’s a sweet lullaby to fall asleep to.

* * *

The months pass and another season arrives. Winter brings frosty mornings and hot cocoa, nights next to her fireplace and spicier home-cooked meals. Sylvain is constantly complaining about the cold; how it makes his joints creak, forcing him to move slower than usual. She doesn’t hear Felix gripe, but she can tell from the way he rubs his knees, hunched over and with a look of annoyance, that the chill isn’t kind to him either.

It’s another reminder of their frailty, of the differences between them at the molecular level. Fundamentals that Bernie can’t change, no matter how much she wishes for them to - because she really, _really_ likes their weekly tea parties, now. She looks forward to hearing Sylvain’s light-hearted chatter and Felix’s grumbles, prickly but never ill-intentioned, much like Dedue’s beloved Duscur cacti. Their affections, doting in their own special ways, fill in the gashes left by a father who cared too much for all the wrong reasons. 

It has taken months for her (no, for _them_ , she corrects herself), to reach this point of “see you next week,” and “hey, Sylvain wants you over for dinner.” Months of unlearning, to not see wispy mirages of coy grins, stuck-out pinkies and the warm embrace of chocolate brown and ember orange in her everyday. Weeks of no longer chasing after ruby chiffon and polished leather boots. Instead, her days are filled with teasing tenors, knobbly knuckles and silky silver. 

The nightmares don’t come as often as they used to either, and the distant memories of Dorothea and Ferdie are beginning to feel more akin to reunions with extended family; the sort that one looks forward to yet dreads all at once. Bernadetta is finding less and less reasons to keep her heart clutched close, shielded from new bonds and farewells. Looking for excuses to keep pushing them away feels like grasping at needles in a haystack. A large haystack that keeps growing with each passing day.

Unavoidable. Her friends are not to be replaced, nor forgotten; she still hears the occasional confident laugh whenever she’s tending to her plants, and the echoes of a lilting harmony as she paints. But it’s different. The sharp twinge throbbing inside her chest is gradually dulling, bittersweet in its significance. 

Time, it seems, is finally healing her.

“Gloves, for us? Oh, sweetheart, you shouldn’t have.”

“But I want to! And there will be more - leg warmers, scarves, beanies...” She lists, insistently pushing the gift closer to Sylvain. “Wheat bags too. A friend told me that they can help relieve sore joints.”

“Well, if the princess insists.” His smile is tender; cosier than her favourite pot of berry blend tea and infinitely grateful. He carefully takes the gloves, running his thumbs along the knitted wool. As with everything Bernadetta makes for them, they come with matching embroidered flowers. Camellias adorn the cuffs, peeking out from amongst the pair of navy and amber, and Sylvain's smile grows wider. Of course, she would remember his favourite. "Thank you, Bernie."

Time has also taught her that sometimes, rather than floundering for an eloquent response, a smile of her own is enough.

“Same time this Sunday?”

“We wouldn’t miss it for the world. See you and Sir Biceps at three.”

Bernadetta misses her friends, very much so. 

But hearing her own giggles, sparkling and light, mingling with Sylvain’s cheerful chuckle, reminds her she isn’t alone.

Not anymore.

* * *

It was supposed to be a standard appointment. But it seems the stars have aligned, and not in Bernadetta’s favour.

“The Bergliez pup,” drawls Hubert, “is a fool.”

“I think he just needs a bit more time,” says Edelgard, gracefully setting down an ornate teacup. “Didn’t Shamir say he’s been talking a lot about Bernadetta within their circle? I’d say it won’t be long before he realises what’s going on.”

“Hopefully, Miss Edelgard. Otherwise, I may have to take matters into my own hands.” 

“Hubert, a loving relationship is meaningless when built upon lies.”

“B-B-Bernie is right here!” She squeaks, more embarrassed than indignant, because yes, even she can lose her patience and Caspar’s obliviousness is nearing astronomical levels of frustration.

“I’m sorry, Bernadetta. I promise we won’t pry further.” Edelgard gives Hubert a hard look, warning him. “But remember, the Bureau is here for you. _We’re_ here for you.” Her gloved hand is warm to touch.

“Miss Edelgard is right - I apologise for my earlier comment, Bernadetta.” His sinister chuckle does little to comfort her though. “But, do call on me if you require any… services.”

“Hubert, you can’t just Turn him. There are formal procedures we must follow.”

“I can’t see why not, Miss Edelgard? The imbecile obviously can’t take a hint and I think Bernadetta’s circumstances call for drastic measures.”

“No one is allowed to bite Caspar, except Bernie!”

Shocked silence.

The grandfather clock chimes two o’clock, the end of her time slot.

“Well,” quips Edelgard, downing the rest of her tea with a giant gulp, “I think Bernadetta has made it quite clear what she wants.”

“My, who knew sweet, timid Bernadetta had such a possessive side?”

Next month’s meeting is going to be a disaster. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much for dropping by. We're nearing the end now; about 2-3 chapters to go! 
> 
> Camellias: Love, longing and admiration.


End file.
